


Not with Haste

by hyacinthclare



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:23:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyacinthclare/pseuds/hyacinthclare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I will love with urgency, but not with haste. </p><p>AU: Strallan leaves the country rather than coming back for the dinner in 3x02. Edith embarks on adventures in London. Canon except for, you know, the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Clouded Mind and a Heavy Heart

**Author's Note:**

> It seems to me that Fellowes wanted to accomplish a few things with Edith's story this season: 1) emotional trauma after being left at the altar, 2) emotional growth as a result of getting away from her family/spending time in London/focusing on something other than her lovelife, and 3) an eventual happy ending with her endgame love interest. My argument is that all of this could have been accomplished with Strallan as her endgame and without him leaving her at the altar. So here's basically what I would like to have seen happen. Michael Gregson will be appearing, but as we haven't seen him yet, mine will probably be a completely non-canon treatment of his character. Here we gooo.

1\. A Clouded Mind & a Heavy Heart

April 1920

Anthony Strallan's lungs were full of the sea air and his ears were full of the delighted screams of children playing on the deck. He was headed for a season of Italian sunshine and churches and galleries—a restorative tour for an old man. Everyone would suppose he had gone abroad for his health. In truth, he had never felt so ill in his life as he did now, standing at the rail of the steamer and watching the waves roll beneath him, and it had nothing to do with seasickness. Somewhere in Yorkshire, the loveliest girl in the world was probably crumpling his letter in her fist, or tearing it to pieces, or throwing it into a hungry fire. He hoped he had ended it quickly enough to spare her real heartache, but if he knew anything of Edith Crawley's heart, he could be sure he had damaged it.

It was entirely his own fault. He ought to have discouraged her, but he was a man of flesh and blood. Faced with her determination and her winning smiles, and that tiny, stolen kiss, his resolve had crumbled. Of course it was wrong; of course her father disapproved—what father wouldn't when a crippled old man courted his daughter?

The only way to truly end it was to go abroad. If he stayed in England, Edith would only appear at his door, and he could not trust himself to resist her. With real distance between them, Edith could forget him. She would find someone her own age, someone who could share her life instead of stifling her spirit. Listening to the children, to the laughter of a young woman, to the footsteps tapping against the deck, Anthony felt more keenly than ever that his life was over. He would spend the rest of his days attending concerts, looking at paintings, watching the young dance at parties, always the passive observer of life and never a participant. That was old age, that was his future. He had no right to force Edith into that quiet, whiling-away sort of living. He shut his eyes against the sight of England slipping away in the distance.


	2. It Takes an Ocean

Edith ought to have known something would go wrong.

She had read Sir Anthony's letter half a hundred times; each word was a little blow to her chest. There was a palpable sorrow in the way he wrote, "I cannot pretend that you do not mean a great deal to me." The line, "Your father has made it clear that he finds me unsuitable," sent an angry rush of blood to her head; she was sure she would never forgive him. But it was the tiny words, "Forget me," that echoed in her head and weighed on her chest, that crept across her skin like spiders. How was she supposed to forget?

"It's best to just forget it, Edith dear," her grandmother told her, once the contents of the letter had been summarized over tea. "You would have spent your life as a nurse and resented him before long."

"Granny, how can you say that?" Edith looked at her incredulously. "He needed a chauffeur more than he needed a nurse."

"Even still, he needed a nurse more than he needed a wife," the dowager countess retorted, ignoring the pleading look Cora gave her. "At his age! To think of marriage, it's absurd."

"Is love so absurd to the English?" Mrs. Levinson chimed in, half laughing.

"Certainly," Violet said acidly, "when it upsets rational thought."

Edith could bear their bickering no longer. She stood abruptly and fled the drawing room, ignoring her mother's cry of concern. She couldn't breathe; she couldn't stop moving. She walked straight through the house and out into the afternoon sun, not stopping until she reached the bench on the lawn. Finally she sank into it, gasping. She buried her face in her hands, but her tears would not come, and she could only heave dry sobs into her palms.

A few minutes later, her mother appeared, gently wrapping her arms around her as she joined her on the bench.

"Is there anything I can say, my darling?"

"No," Edith said, her voice cracking. Her mother simply held her for what felt like hours.

"I know you had your hopes up," she said finally. "And I know it hurts. But perhaps it is for the best. You're young, my darling. You should enjoy your youth, not rush it."

"How can I enjoy it, when all my hopes fall apart like this?"

Her mother held her tighter.

"This simply means that it wasn't meant to be. You're meant for better things, you'll fall in love again, and on your wedding day you'll wonder how you ever cried over Sir Anthony, I'm sure of it."

"Oh, mama," Edith finally burst into tears. Cora rocked her gently, soothing her as though she were a child again with a soft kiss on her forehead.

"Why don't we get away for a while?" her mother suggested. "We'll go to London to visit Rosamund, and you'll meet so many young men that you'll be the one breaking hearts."

Edith forced a laugh and wiped away her tears.

"I can't imagine that will ever happen, mama."

She could not, however, deny that the prospect of getting away from Yorkshire was more than appealing.


	3. 3. It's Easy to Lose Your Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edith's life in London takes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB: I've made Gregson younger than he'll be in the show for ~thematic purposes.

3\. It's Easy to Lose Your Breath

October 1920

 

"How was the soirée last night?" Aunt Rosamund asked over the rim of her teacup, a thin veil of steam rising before her eyes.

"Oh, Julia's parties are always divine," Edith answered.

"How I envy the young!" Rosamund sighed. "It's such an exciting time for youth."

Edith smiled her agreement. Indeed, her life never had been as exciting as it had become over the past few months. Between parties and publishers, she barely had a quiet moment. It was the writing that had started first. Finding herself bored by the first few weeks in London—which were spent paying calls and attending subdued dinners with the same old people—Edith had decided to find something useful to do. She set herself to the cause of women's suffrage, for her frustration with the disenfranchisement of women grew each time she read an article about it. Finally, she took up her pen. First there was her letter to _The Times_ , which her father had assured her would not be published. To his great shock, it was. Edith still had a copy of that paper tucked in her desk drawer _—"Earl's Daughter Speaks Out for Women's Rights"_ —It had been thrilling, but not quite as thrilling as being asked by the editor to write a column. And then another, and another, until suddenly she was "Lady Edith Crawley, the writer," when her aunt introduced her at parties.

"A writer! How fascinating!" had been Julia Fennick's first words to her. "And what a stunning frock!"

The parties had started then, thanks to Julia. Edith had found herself swept up into a fashionable set, and, for the first time in her life, she enjoyed her popularity. She was quickly immersed in Julia's world—a dizzy rush from this club to that party, each one full of the most _fascinating_ people.

"This is Edith Crawley, the writer," Julia would say, and from rouged lips or around a cigarette, her new acquaintance would exclaim, "How grand!"

And it was rather grand—even if her new friends spent more time drinking and dancing than actually reading her articles, it was novel and thrilling to be recognized for her talents. The sweetness of her success could not even be dampened by the reactions of her family. Her father vacillated between bemusement and derision; Mary was vaguely irritated; her grandmother was thoroughly scandalized. But each time she saw her name in that small black print, Edith felt less and less desirous of their approval.

And so, as October began with a rush of crisp air rattling through the fallen leaves, Edith could quite agree with her aunt. It was an exciting time to be young.

* * *

"Edith, finally!"

"I'm not late, am I?"

"No, but I've been wanting you for ages," Julia said, drawing out each word with exaggerated agony. She hardly waited for the maid to take Edith's coat before she dragged her into the drawing room. There was already a crush of guests assembled, each of them, cocktails in hand, shimmering and buzzing, each of them fascinating.

Julia Fennick was the most fascinating, of course. She was an irresistible force of a girl, sparkling and vivacious, and utterly carefree. She was rather like Mary, but without a trace of seriousness or ambition. Julia's sole ambition was to enjoy every moment of her life, and so far she was succeeding. She hardly spent an evening without an abundance of champagne, cigarettes, and dancing. Edith still found that breathless sort of life remarkable, but it was perfectly natural to Julia. Blessed with fortune, fine features and a shock of red hair, and indulgent parents, Julia's greatest worry was being sure that her friends were sufficiently fascinating.

"I'm so glad you're here," Julia gushed, clutching Edith's hand as they wove through the crowd.

"You knew I would be," Edith reminded her.

"Well, I'm just so glad that I can finally introduce you to Michael!"

"Who?" Edith strained to hear over the music.

"Michael Gregson—I'm sure you'll be friends; he's a writer too—Ah! Michael!"

Hearing his name, a young man turned and searched for the source of the call. Upon finding it, his face was split by a friendly grin.

"Michael, darling, this is my friend Edith Crawley, the writer," Julia said. "I've been so eager for you to meet."

"Delighted," Mr. Gregson said, offering his hand to Edith.

She shook it firmly. "How do you do?"

He turned to Julia with a conspiratorial smile, the kind that foretold a joke, but before he could speak, Julia spotted someone else across the room and flitted away with a delighted cry.

Edith gave Mr. Gregson a sympathetic look, saying, "That's Julia for you."

"Quite," he agreed, drawing a cigarette case from his pocket. He offered one to her, but she held up her hand in refusal. "You don't smoke?"

"No," she explained, "it's a horrid habit."

"Do you know, I have to agree with you," he laughed, tucking the case away again. "I hope you'll accept a drink at least?"

"If you can hunt one down!"

"Wait here," he grinned. "Shan't be a moment."

Edith smiled. As Mr. Gregson moved off in search of a waiter, she assessed his face from afar. It was a handsome one, she had to say, with a strong jaw and perpetually laughing blue eyes. His blonde hair was carefully styled with pomade and his suit was perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders. Edith blushed as he turned back towards her, a champagne cocktail in each hand, and caught her staring.

"Here you are," he presented the promised drink to her with a little bow of his head.

"Thank you," she accepted it brightly.

"To Julia," he toasted, "and her lovely parties."

Edith clinked her glass against his,

"So what sort of writing do you do, Miss Crawley?"

Edith almost laughed in his face to hear herself called "Miss," but she did not correct him.

"I write columns for _The Times_ ," she explained. "About women's suffrage."

"How serious!" he exclaimed, pulling a mock-serious face.

Edith scoffed. "What about you then?"

"I like to think of myself as a satirist," he said. "I find there is so much in the world to satirize."

"No wonder you find my cause serious!"

"Quite so," he conceded. "But I hope you aren't too serious for dancing?"

Edith felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise and she nearly choked on her drink—she was still not used to being asked to dance, when Mary had always been there to outshine her in their London seasons before the war.

"Of course," she took Mr. Gregson's hand and followed him to the dance floor.

Edith was even more aware of his attractiveness when his hand was on her waist and his face was mere inches from hers. She tried to focus on their conversation, but she was continually distracted by his smile, or the way his eyes lit up when he told her a joke. Something about those blue eyes was strangely, unsettlingly familiar. She shook off the sensation and threw back a joke of her own.

By the end of the evening, Edith was surprised by how comfortable she felt with Mr. Gregson. Even though he had teased her for the seriousness of her work, he actually discussed the issue with her (in between jokes). And in so doing, he proved that he had a serious mind despite his scornful sense of humor.

"I shall look forward to your next article, Miss Crawley," he told her as they were saying goodnight.

"Honestly, Michael, you can't call her that!" interjected Julia. "She's Lady Edith to the likes of you! Oh—there's Henry and Diana, I simply must—" She was gone again before she finished her sentence.

Mr. Gregson turned to Edith with a look that was half sheepish and half reproachful.

"My father is Lord Grantham," she explained, only a little sorry for keeping him in the dark.

"You might have said," he laughed in a manner that showed there were no hurt feelings. "I've made myself look quite the fool, calling you 'Miss Crawley' all night!"

Edith smirked. "Just goes to show I'm not as serious as you thought."

He gave her a scrutinizing, appreciative look and she felt her face flush again.

"No, indeed."

"Goodnight, Mr. Gregson."


	4. Time Is Rough on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was the way he had always imagined old age to be—a pattern of movements and moments, simply spinning away until it simply stopped. It seemed to suit him, this pattern into which he had fallen."

4\. Time Is Rough on Me

Florence, October 1920

Anthony Strallan had never been a spontaneous soul. Now, more than ever, he was a creature of habit. It was the way he had always imagined old age to be—a pattern of movements and moments, simply spinning away until it simply stopped. It seemed to suit him, this pattern into which he had fallen. It was more than regular visits to landmarks or clockwork calls on his acquaintances; it was a steady repetition of every moment. He began each morning by opening his curtains for a view of the Arno, a sight that had become as comforting as any painting in his hall at home. The same breakfast was always brought to his room—a boiled egg, tea, dry toast, some fruit. And every morning, during this simple meal, he carefully paged through _The Times_. He always got the English papers days late, but of course he did not rely on their headlines for his news. He often remarked to his friends that he liked to keep in touch with England while abroad, but that was not entirely true. Every morning, his real motive for scanning each page was his hope of finding a particular name printed there.

He had almost missed its first appearance in print, some months ago now, but just as he had been about to discard the paper, his eye had caught the headline, _Earl's Daughter Speaks Out for Women's Rights_. Curiosity had drawn him to the story, and faintly he had remembered the youngest Crawley girl and her jaunts to political rallies back in the early '10s. But he had never imagined he would find the name Lady Edith Crawley printed there, and below it an eloquent, sharp, and fearless piece of journalism. He had read that first article half a dozen times, smiling at a new turn of phrase with each perusal.

"That lovely girl," he had murmured, carefully folding the paper and tucking it into a book.

Ever since, he had been careful not to miss her articles. Each one was a wonder, and he felt a curious sense of pride for her—as though he had any right to such a sensation. He was continually delighted by her cleverness, which shone through in each word. Her skill only improved with practice, and soon he had quite the collection of clippings, each featuring the words he hoped to see each morning: "By Lady Edith Crawley."

Of course, it was as painful as it was wonderful. He felt keenly how pathetic he was, clinging to these little glimpses of her. Every now and then, the wish that he could share his pride with her would fall into his thoughts. He almost wanted to write to her, but he doubted his feeble praise would be welcome. Once, late in the evening, he had imagined what it might be like to plant a kiss on her forehead as she sat at the breakfast table, reading her own words out to him—he fought quickly to banish such fantasies. Had he tied her down to him, she might never have picked up her pen; she would have been too busy looking after her crippled old husband.

Indeed, he often told himself, this was what he had hoped for her. A beating heart, a blossoming youth, a real life—and, if the society pages were to be believed, she was quite the bright young thing. It was painful; it would never not be painful, but of course it was so much better for her this way.

And so as she bloomed, Anthony whiled away his days in Florence: taking his daily walk through the Piazza della Signoria, visiting the Santa Croce, attending teas and going to the opera, buying postcards he would never send to anyone, and every morning waking to his view of the Arno. Time itself progressed in a different manner now—it no longer unfolded or tumbled or slowed or quickened suddenly. It clicked on, rhythmic, predictable, and cold.


End file.
